


how fast we fade

by carrythesky



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6886942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrythesky/pseuds/carrythesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hits her in this moment that she’s never really seen his true face, the one he wore when he was just a man, just a husband and a father. When punishment was a time-out, an early bedtime, not a body in a morgue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how fast we fade

If she had known they were going to have their first argument tonight, she would’ve stayed at Josie’s.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” she gasps as he materializes from the living room. He looks like he hasn’t showered in the six weeks since she’s last seen him - hair longer than she remembers sticks up from his head at all the wrong angles, a layer of stubble dusts his face - but she’s just thankful he’s not bleeding.

 

“You need to stop digging,” is his reply, and even though she’s relieved to see him, she can’t help but feel a pinch of irritation. It’s not like she expects to hear from him - she honestly never expected to see him again after the night he vanished from that rooftop - but it’s been six weeks this time, no word, _nothing_ , and every time she settles back into her life, ignoring the hole he leaves behind, he pulls shit like this.

 

So she says, “Nice to see you too, Frank,” with as much sarcasm as she can muster, shrugging out of her coat and depositing her satchel onto the kitchen counter.

 

“Don’t do that,” he rasps. “This isn’t...this isn’t a goddamn joke, alright?”

 

She turns, startled by the venom in his voice. His face is a blank slate, unreadable, but his fists are clenched tightly at his sides, tendons straining beneath his skin, and she’s seen him angry before, but never this angry. Never at her. _Jesus, what’s this about? What could I have possibly done?_

 

_Unless..._

 

“Kandahar.” The word escapes her lips, barely louder than a whisper. “How did you know I was-”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re digging into some serious shit here, and if you keep at it, the wrong people are gonna notice.”

 

She tilts her head, studying him more closely. It hits her in this moment that she’s never really seen his true face, the one he wore when he was just a man, just a husband and a father. When punishment was a time-out, an early bedtime, not a body in a morgue. The only face of his she’s ever known is the one he’s wearing right now, swollen, painted with bruises, unflinching. His eyes are guarded as they meet hers - it’s the same look he gave her the night they first met, the night she shoved that photo in his face, told him that none of them would get any answers if he was dead. He’s looking at her like she owes him something.

 

 _I knew I should’ve left Kandahar alone_. She’s spent more sleepless nights than she’d like to admit poring over Frank’s file, re-reading police reports, digging into the colonel’s past. Trying to connect the dots. Most of the time, she doesn’t even realize she’s spent the whole night awake until sunlight is spilling in through the blinds. But sometimes, very rarely, there are nights when she’ll stop, push her coffee away and set down whatever document she’s been dissecting, remind herself that the trial is over and the world has moved on. No one cares about Frank Castle anymore. These nights, she’ll ask herself why she still does.

 

“Look, Frank,” she says. “You don’t need to worry. I’m just-”

 

“Just what?” He takes a step towards her. “Just _what,_ Karen? You have no fuckin’ idea what you’re messing with here, no goddamn clue. You think you’re a big kid now just because you’ve, what, written a few articles? You think that gives you the right-” he shakes his head, raking his hands through his hair. She can see his chest rising and falling from here, the controlled, measured breathing of someone who is struggling to remain calm.

 

 _Right there with you, asshole_ , she thinks. Her irritation has evolved into something resembling anger, and it churns in the pit of her stomach. She knows she has no right to exhume his past, knows it’s dangerous, but _six_ weeks have come and gone, and damn it, if he really cares about her, really wants her to be safe -

 

He has a fucked up way of showing it.

 

“You don’t get to do this,” she says, voice shaking. “Disappear for weeks without a word and then show up here like you give a shit. You-” she cuts herself off, afraid of what might spill out of her if she continues.

 

“Is that what you think?” he growls, narrowing his eyes. “I’m risking my own goddamn neck to be here, I don’t have to-”

 

“You’re right, you don’t have to!” She can’t hold it in anymore; she erupts, every negative thing that’s been simmering beneath the surface for the past six weeks finally igniting as she screams at him louder than she’s ever screamed at anyone in her entire life. “I didn’t ask for this, Frank, I didn’t ask for you to come here! _You_ were the one who walked away that night with Schoonover, _you_ slammed that door in my face! What the hell did you expect? Did you expect me to just drop it, walk away? Well, I can’t do that, alright? I can’t-”

 

It takes her a fraction of a second too long to realize that he’s crossing the space between them; before she can react, his hands are on her face and his lips are crashing down onto hers.

 

His mouth is urgent, desperate, kissing her as if he’s breathing her in. Hands cradle either side of her face, fingers unexpectedly gentle and feather-light against her skin, and she knows he’s holding back, knows how much damage these hands have done. He tastes like smoke and metal and rain, and for a breathless moment, she imagines encircling his waist with her arms, pulling his body against hers, losing herself inside of him.

 

She imagines his sharp edges, imagines them cutting into her hard enough to bleed, to scar.

 

She pulls away.

 

His fingertips leave a trail of fire against her face as she steps backwards, sliding out of his grasp. Something in his face shifts, darkens. Her pulse is pounding in her ears, drowning out the silence that’s stretching between them.

 

“I...I think you should go,” she says softly.

 

He hesitates a few moments before asking, “That really what you want?”  His voice is hoarse, his eyes are burning into her, and something tightens within her chest.

 

What she wants is to smile with him in the spaces between kisses, count the laugh lines that frame his eyes, explore the contours of his torn and tattered skin. She wants stability and promises that can be kept, arms that will hold her more than once every six weeks. She wants more than he can give.

 

So she steels herself, hardens her gaze. “Maybe you should think about what your family would’ve wanted, Frank. Is this it?” Confusion flickers in his eyes. She takes a breath. “Is this what Maria would’ve wanted?”

 

That does it. His face crumples, twists with rage, and she hates herself in this moment for being the source of his pain. “Shit,” she whispers, voice cracking. There’s a lump in her throat, a stinging pressure behind her eyes, regret in her veins. “Shit, Frank, I’m so sorry-”

 

But he’s already pushing past her, slamming the door to her apartment, leaving behind a silence wide enough to swallow her whole. She sinks to her knees, sobs until her chest aches from heaving, until her eyes are bled dry of all moisture. Exhaustion overtakes her.

 

In her dreams, he kisses her again and again.


End file.
